The Game of Love
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: Another attempt is made to unearth the prisoner's secrets. He knows immediately that it won't work.


One morning, his door swings outward to reveal a heart-shaped box and a bouquet of red roses waiting for him.

Such gifts are not unwelcome, but he's too familiar with the Village to consider them as anything other than a ploy. Nevertheless, he takes the items inside to inspect them, confident that neither one will suddenly explode and blow his dwelling to smithereens. He knows he's far too important for a trick as simple as that.

Nestled within the box are eight tempting pieces of his favorite brand of chocolate, which he'd enjoyed before his doctor recommended a diet. Having expected nothing less, he refuses to consume any. The roses, on the other hand, give him pause before they're tossed in the fireplace. Not on account of their vibrant, eye-catching red shade, but because of the envelope tucked inside the bouquet. Four words are scrawled in a flowing hand- _From your secret admirer._

The note within provides him with no means of identification, but it does offer the chance to find out. _Let's meet in the square at 10:00 today._ Though the suggested meeting interrupts his daily schedule, he figures he had better play along. If only to decipher his captors' motives. They've set up their game board, but he'll be the one to decide where they move him.

* * *

Out in the square, he instantly identifies his so-called secret admirer, from the self-assured swing in her step as she approaches him. "Number Six, is it? Delighted to find you've taken my suggestion."

Her face is pleasant, her body even more so. She is lean, but not bony like some of Village women are, and her skin is entirely free of lines. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and though the gaudy dress of the Village doesn't flatter her shapely figure, the sparkle in her eyes and her knowing smile make up for it. The number pinned to her chest reads 33, but from the warm glow hanging about her, he doubts she has been here long. If she was even captured like the rest.

"Well?" she says, when she realizes he has no intention of answering her. "Haven't I got the right man? Would be a shame if I left those gifts for the wrong Number Six."

He quirks a smile, because of course there's no other Number Six. In his book, Number Six doesn't even exist. But as it's the only name this woman has for him, he's obligated to respond. "And it would be a shame to see them rejected. What's the meaning of it?"

She shrugs. "Surely you're not unaware of your own charms. I thought I'd take a chance." Arching one eyebrow, she sets off at a leisurely stride. He follows, willing but wary.

"You're a handsome fellow," she tosses behind her back, without glancing towards him. "And of course I like your spirit. It's your most attractive quality."

He wonders what exactly the nature of this game is. He's seen this before, in the Village woman who carried a locket with his picture and was convinced her feelings were reciprocated. Not to mention the Estonian spy who had questioned him quite curiously on his private life, when they lay side-by-side hours in a failed escape attempt. But both had been agents of the Village- the former a hapless pawn, the latter a conspirator all along. His captors must be reaching if they believe he'd let himself trust another female admirer. The affections of a woman have yet to warm his heart.

"If you like my spirit so much," he says as he catches up to her, "why don't you escape with me?"

She smiles and shakes her head, eyes affixed to the clear sky. "What use would it be, when everything we could possibly need is right here?" Pointedly she glances at him. "Come on now. I like you. If you stop resisting and open up, I'm sure you'll warm to me."

 _Now_ it hits him what this woman is playing at, and he has to admit he's amused. For all his captors claim to know about him, they appear to have missed one crucial detail in their files. Of course, he's found that the absence of love is always more difficult to spot than its existence. At his age, remaining a bachelor is more likely attributed to having not found the right woman, rather than assuming that the right woman will never come.

"I find it difficult to warm up to someone known only as Thirty-Three," he says.

"A relationship must maintain some degree of distance," she replies. "You know what familiarity breeds."

He finds himself wanting to smile again, but holds back the urge. Despite doubting that he will ever fall in love, with this woman or any other, he feels that were this not the Village, he would have taken an immediate liking to her. His captors have chosen the role of admirer well. All the more reason to be careful.

"Tell you what," the woman says, cocking her head and side-eyeing him. "If you win against me in a game at the gym, I'll give you my name." Her eyes are full of light, and he notices they're almost as blue as his own. "What say you to a round of Kosho?"

He hesitates- as per the rules of the game, he's allowed to turn down a woman's offer, instead of accepting immediately as he would with men. He has no doubt that the name she'll give is fake. But to know her as a name and not a number… to identify even one person as an individual…

Even though he can't fall in love with her, he's got to watch out. She's obviously been briefed on his possible weaknesses.

They play three rounds of Kosho, and he wins each of them, although she comes very close the second time. As promised, she tells him her name. He smiles and files it away in his memory before turning away.

"Well, aren't you going to tell me yours?" she calls as he retreats.

He shakes his head. "Better luck next time." If there is a next time.

* * *

Later on, he meets the new Number Two. She strikes him as far less pleasant than the woman with whom he's spent the morning associating. She wears glasses, a bob haircut, and a sour, sickening smile. Without bothering to introduce herself- after all, he knows she's only the latest in a succession of Number Two's, so there's no point in getting to know her- she begins right away to talk about love.

"I noticed you spent the morning with Number Thirty-Three," she announces, drumming her fingers against her umbrella's handle. "Are you having second thoughts about our Village? It wouldn't hurt for you to settle down, you know. Number Thirty-Three is a fine citizen. If it goes any further you'll have to let me know, in order to officiate the ceremony."

The idea of marrying a woman he has only met that day strikes him as completely absurd. _Is that how it's done here?_ He's never even seen a couple hold hands in the Village. But of course, Number Two instigated this plot. She'll try to put any idea in his head that will help reinforce it.

"No second thoughts," he refutes her. "I'm afraid my interest in settling down remains entirely nonexistent."

For a split second she appears to be affronted, and he wonders which woman he's supposed to be in love with.

"Are you sure? You know she went to great lengths to pick out the right gifts for you."

If the intent is to confuse, he's not falling for it. "Of course. Because flowers and sweets are such a novel idea. I'm astonished to have never thought of it before."

Number Two blinks slowly, unamused. "With an attitude like that, it's no wonder your relationship isn't moving forward."

" _Relationship._ I hardly know the woman."

"But she knows you," Number Two states calmly. "Wait and see, Number Six. She'll grow on you."

Before she leaves, he toys with the idea of having a little fun with her. His captors are in search of an ideal woman to capture his heart. Why not let them believe she's still out there?

But he quickly realizes it makes no difference. No matter how many women his captors parade around and show off, he's never going to have feelings for them beyond curious indifference or, at best, guarded companionship. Even before entering his former profession, he had often been accused of keeping people at an arm's length. Orienting his life around his work was ironically refreshing. It spared him the awkward introductions at parties, the forced dinner dates that he spent subtly checking his watch. It wasn't that he always _disliked_ the women with whom he was set up- he just never seemed to feel the proper spark. The organization's insistence on secrecy became a convenient excuse not to date, and a more acceptable one than simply lacking the desire to do so.

Even if he did have a knack for romance, the Village is certainly no place for such feelings to bloom. That Number Two believes in her plan for a second shows that her confidence greatly outweighs her knowledge of the situation. But if she wants him to spend more time with a woman, so be it. He'll play her game if he has to, until she wises up, and a new Two arises in her stead.

* * *

He runs into his secret admirer several times over the course of the next few days. Each time she is unfailingly charming in her romantic overtures, and he is deft at deflecting them. This doesn't stop her from sticking to his side, but she does respect his wishes, and ceases her advances when asked. Sometimes she accompanies him on his daily schedule, and sometimes she's only passing through.

Either way, he finds her company to be oddly enjoyable. He doesn't want to admit it, but she is growing on him- just not in the way that Number Two had hoped for. When she's not transparently pushing the Village's propaganda, she's an effective conversationalist, with a sharp wit to match his own. But as even friendship can be dangerous here, he tends to focus on her more aggravating moments, to prevent further attachment.

"You're such a man of mystery," she remarks at one point, apropos of nothing. "Why do you feel the need to hide so much from me? Trust is the foundation of lasting relationships." She reaches for his hand, but he pulls away.

"In case you haven't noticed, I find in this place that _trust_ is rather hard to come by." He looks pointedly away from her. "And perhaps I never asked for a relationship."

Still she coolly persists. "I'm not asking you to give it a try and be happy with me. I'm just saying. Can't you see the potential?"

"The potential for what? Betrayal?" He shakes his head, a grim smile on his face. "All I can see is you running to your superiors the second you come across any information which they might find pertinent."

"That's not a fair assumption." She folds her arms across her chest and throws her head back. "I only want to learn more about you."

"Oh, _do_ you?" He rounds on her, eyes wide in mock surprise. "Are you saying that because you _want_ to, or because you were told to?"

A hard look settles across her face, but instead of standing her ground she turns partially away, breaking eye contact. "Whether or not you believe it, I promise it's from the heart."

But he can't believe her, because her body language speaks louder than words. If she continues to press for information, just like everyone else, he's going to have to avoid her. She managed to get this far with him- farther than he would have expected, actually- but no more.

* * *

That evening, the door to his dwelling swings open to admit a visitor, just as he's finished changing clothes. Turning, he spies the 33 pin on her breast before seeing her face. His admirer has grown bolder. _How long is this going to last?_ After a week he'd expect his captors to switch tactics, but he's never met a Number Two who didn't overstay their welcome.

"Hello," the woman states courteously. Her hand is curled around the neck of a bottle, and he zeroes in on it. "Excuse me if I'm intruding. I'm aware we didn't part on the best of terms today, and I wondered if I might smooth things over with a nightcap." She indicates the bottle in hand. "You can throw me out if you're not in the mood."

He carefully eyes first the bottle, then her. "You can stay as long as there's a drop of alcohol in that stuff." But he knows perfectly well that there isn't, because the label on the woman's bottle is the same as the label on the bottles in his cabinets. He hasn't touched the stuff after his only trip to the Village pub.

"Sorry," the woman says with an apologetic smile. "I suppose I should be on my way." But she makes no move towards the door. His suspicion begins to grow, and he steps towards her.

"Why are you _really_ here?"

"I told you," she insists. "I just want to have one drink, if you'll allow it. Don't think I haven't realized that you're not fond of me. If you indulge me this once, I promise you won't hear from me again. I just wanted to share this moment."

She's changed her tune, shown her true colors. He knows now that she would argue if he tried to leave. Evidently something is in that bottle besides the Village's sickly brew, something far less agreeable.

"All right." Saturating each word with indifference, he turns to the cabinets. "In that case, be my guest. But just one drink."

"Thank you, my dear." She languidly reclines in the nearest chair. "You know, I never realized you had curls in your hair."

He doesn't respond to her unwanted advances, instead wishing that she had caught him before his shower. They're on unequal footing, she fully dressed without a hair out of place, he prepared for bed rather than entertaining guests.

When she catches sight of him pouring what he's deemed to be the least offensive beverage, her eyebrows rise. "Still not in the mood to trust me?"

"I won't be until you give me a good reason why I should." He comes toward her, a full glass in each hand, and she sighs, reluctantly accepting hers. "If you don't mind, I'd much prefer to fix my own drink."

"Suit yourself." He stares coldly at her as he raises his glass to his lips. She rises from her seat and uncorks the bottle she's brought, before pouring it in with the drink he's made. Perhaps the untouched beverage from his cabinet will insulate her from the effects of whatever's in her own bottle.

"You really should know better," she says, raising her glass. "I've no intention of hurting you." Meeting his gaze, she drinks deliberately, as if to prove the harmlessness of her non-alcoholic offering.

His drink tastes even worse than he'd remembered, but he forces it down. She watches him silently, as if absorbing his every detail. When he sets the glass down, she closes the distance between them, hand outstretched to touch his cheek.

"See? I only wanted to be near you," she whispers. "I'm sorry I'm not attractive to you. But then again, it's surprising how soon the mind changes."

He takes a step back, eager to distance himself from her. But his body doesn't react quickly enough. He's going numb.

 _Was MY glass drugged…_

All he can focus on is the sound of his heartbeat. His vision blurs. She approaches, her lips parting in a word he cannot hear. He tries to speak, but nothing but air comes out. Then his consciousness flees entirely.

The next thing he knows, he's lying dazed on his bed, the woman hovering over him. As his awareness slowly returns, he realizes she's changed clothes. Her dull Village garments have been replaced by a shapeless white nightdress that hardly goes down to her knees.

"There's no need to fear me, my dear." Her voice comes out in a hushed, throaty whisper. She gently gathers his hand and strokes it, while he lies immobile, still trying to find his bearings. "Despite how it might seem, love is allowed here, in the Village. You don't have to deny yourself these pleasures…"

Immediately it dawns on him that he's not safe in this position. Disoriented and vulnerable, he's liable to become this woman's prey. He starts to sit up, but his movements are infuriatingly slow, the drug still inflicting wrath upon his system. Not seeming to notice- or perhaps pretending not to notice-she raises his hand and presses it to her cheek. Disgust fills him. He never asked for her to touch him. But just as the thought crosses his mind to pull away, her grip tightens.

"I want to make love, Number Six," she whispers, in a voice like a mosquito's whine. "You may try to hide it, but I know you care for me, deep down. And even if you don't now, I know you will come to do so."

He's about to declare his opposition, to tell her she's delusional, but her last words stop him abruptly. It's true that he doesn't care for her now… but what would happen if he gave in to her desires? What if all he needs is more time to get to know her, in order to awaken those mysterious feelings he has yet to experience? Maybe his problem is that he's been too guarded. Maybe he was wrong to write her off as an enemy…

He feels on some distant level that he really would like to go to bed with this woman. She's beautiful enough to justify it. Certainly a number of men he's known would easily give in. But at the same time… it's not what he _wants_. To lie with a woman means to make a promise of faithfulness and commitment, to offer a life full of love. He can't do that, because he has never desired that kind of relationship. It's wholly unfair to her.

Then the woman bends down, and clarity shatters every thought, as if he's been slapped awake or had a bucket of cold water thrown on him. _What is he thinking?!_ He's almost fallen into the exact trap his captors had hoped to set. He's known from the start that this woman is on their side. Why entertain for even a second the idea of staying with her? Why be so considerate of her feelings? She doesn't care for him any more than she does any other prisoner. She's after the secrets for which his captors hound him daily, and he is just as intent on keeping her away from them.

His mind casts about in search of a feasible course of action, some way of _escape._ One hand is still locked in her vice he were at his full capabilities he would be able to easily overpower her, but he's irritatingly feeble under the drug's influence. However, minimal movements could turn out in his favor. Just as the woman reaches for his other hand, he turns, shifting onto his side. Not expecting him to move, her grip slackens- and with his last ounce of strength, he pushes himself off the bed.

Lying on the floor is not much of an improvement. It only gives the woman more of an advantage over him. But at least he's momentarily freed himself from her clutches. As quickly as he can, he pushes himself into a sitting position. Kneeling, the woman looms toward him, reaching out- but he grabs her arms before she can capture him again. His grip isn't as tight as he'd like, but he's strong enough to lock her in place.

"I know what you really want," he murmurs, in a rough, deadly tone. "I won't share a bed with you, much less information."

She stares at him a moment, her blue eyes wide. Then she forcefully shakes her head, as if denying the very concept.

"What are you talking about? I'm not one of _them!"_

The brazenness of her lie needles him, and he sits up straighter, wishing he was on his feet. "If you're not with them, what's your excuse?"

"Don't you understand?" She genuinely appears hurt- the mark of a masterful actress. "I _love_ you."

Love. _Love._ All this talk about _love._ It's everywhere, from the books he's read to the lyrics of his favorite songs. _Love, love, love. All you need is love…_ He believes he knows what love is. Love for his fellow man, love for his country, even love for his hand-built Lotus 7. But when this woman speaks of love, he only wants to back away.

" _Love."_ He relaxes his grip on her arm as he gathers his strength. "I've never known a _lover_ to resort to drugging her partners. Nor one who enters a man's house without his permission, and forces herself on him despite his disinterest." Slowly, he rises from the floor, leaning on the bedside table for support. Even though she's able to stand, she remains on the floor, gazing up at him like an abused dog waiting for the next blow. Vaguely he feels sorry for her, but the feeling is quelled once he reminds himself who sent her.

"You talk of love," he says, "but you don't seem to know the first thing about it."

Shakily she rises to her feet, stepping away from him. "I know how I feel about _you."_

"You only know the stories that Number Two fed to you. Get out."

She wavers, stripped of her resolve, and he knows he's won.

"You don't-"

" _Get out!"_

Finally she hurries away, probably off to Number Two to report that her scheme failed. It's only when the door is safely shut that he sits back against the bed, drained from fighting to stay on his feet. Although he feels much more alert now. It shouldn't take too long before he's resumed full control of himself.

He shouldn't be surprised that his captors would sink to a tactic as low as seduction. The concept is nothing new- not even some of his former colleagues from the organization were above it. But he never considered that he would ever be on the receiving end.

Despite himself, he begins to wonder what might have happened had he been introduced to the woman back in London. Back when he took his freedom for granted. Would the setting have made any difference? If he had been able to get to know her true identity, and never had to second-guess her every move… Would he have finally discovered what it means to fall in love?

But even before the Village, the concept was meaningless. After years of shrugging off personal invitations and being accused as a heartbreaker, he's begun to rule out the possibility. Interesting women are good for friendship and intense conversations, maybe an occasional dance. Any further offers are discomforting.

And there lies one of the Village's clever tricks. As sinister as the place may be, at least he doesn't feel obligated to explain himself. His solitary nature now works to his advantage.

* * *

It isn't until later in the week that he meets his secret admirer again. He's standing on the beach, observing the curious way that the Villagers splash in the shallow waves, but never venture further, when he feels a soft touch at his elbow. Turning, he finds himself face to face with a young man, stripped down to swimming trunks. His skin is tanned and toned, and his hair is a mess of wild curls.

"Hello," the man says, offering his hand. "I'm Number Thirty-Three. I don't believe we've met."

He stares at the man's hand, but refuses to take it. The desire to laugh rises in him, but he swallows it back. It's a fair assumption for his captors to make, given how persistently he'd turned down the woman, but in this case he couldn't be less interested.

"You may have changed your face," he says slowly, "but I still won't trust a person by the name of Thirty-Three. Be seeing you." He performs the traditional salute and walks off, leaving the man dumbfounded.

He decides it's best not to wonder what happened to the woman. Most likely, she's been spirited away to whatever country she hailed from, after reporting the failure of her mission. It's the most hopeful outcome at any rate. He's surprised to find himself wishing her the best.

The next day, Number Two is the one with a new face.

* * *

 **AN: While I highly doubt anyone looking for fanfic about The Prisoner has yet to finish the series, I'll state this just in case: do not read the following note if you haven't yet seen "Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling."**

 **I'm aware that No. 6 is established as having a fiancee, with whom he is in love, which obviously contradicts this story. However, I've outright decided to ignore that episode, simply because there are no indications of his engagement in any other episode, and I just don't think it works for the character. (Besides, that episode is arguably inessential, so it's easy to think of it as non-canon.)**

 **That said, I've found No. 6 to be a challenging character to write (apparently his defiance against being controlled extends to fanfic writers...), and this also happens to be the first time I've written a character as aromantic. So please let me know if anything in his characterization seems inaccurate, or if my portrayal of an aromantic character was disrespectful.**


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